


A Post-Wedding Dance

by type_40_consulting_detective



Series: My Short Works [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dancing, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Heartbreak, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/type_40_consulting_detective/pseuds/type_40_consulting_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a deep need in him; to feel, to just be, to exist solely in as transport and shut out the frantic screaming of his genius. Sherlock is touch starved and desperate and out of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Post-Wedding Dance

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://tegabyte.tumblr.com/post/82026306004/a-doodle-for-type40consultingdetective-who-wanted) is a lovely sketch done by the awesome [Tega](http://tegabyte.tumblr.com/) for this fic.

There is a deep need in him; to feel, to just be, to exist solely in as transport and shut out the frantic screaming of his genius. Sherlock is touch starved and desperate and out of his mind when he finally gives in. He allows the hunger to rule him, as he steps into the night.

Not that long ago, this was his survival. He took and gave to meet his needs, to feel alive and full of fire. He sold himself off in little pieces for peace of mind. It’s not difficult to return to it, the siren call of hot bodies and thumping bass and drugs exciting his system.

The man is young, perhaps too young, but thick and eager. His touch is firm, his preparations short and rough. And then, Sherlock feels it, the burning fullness that compels his full attention. The deep thrusts that hit just so, and spark electricity through him. He’s a moaning sobbing mess, gasping and begging for more.

When the first one is done, he finds another. Then a third, and a fourth. He’s high as a kite and floating in the starry sky, pretending he can’t feel the end coming on.

He’s curled up in his bed at 221b when he crashes, more alone now than when the night started. He sleeps like the dead, still in his dress pants and shirt sleeves and shiny black shoes.

John Watson isn’t the only one on a sex holiday.

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself so sad with this idea, that I just had to share. Please don't shoot me.
> 
> You can find me at type40consultingdetective.tumblr.com if you want to shoot me, though.


End file.
